


condolences, pride, salt

by satariraine



Category: Free!
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Past Character Death, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:52:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5043757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satariraine/pseuds/satariraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rin sits in front of his father’s grave and turns his gaze to the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	condolences, pride, salt

**Author's Note:**

> I know this will be a little personal but I want to explain what this short mess of a story is to me. This last December, I lost my father suddenly. My motivation to write suffered among other things, and it's caused some self-reproach since I had works promised for other people but I couldn't bring myself to work on them. But after some time passed I was reminded of Rin and his own loss, and this idea just came to me. I wanted to honor my dad in something and I wanted to work through my loss so hopefully this is fitting, it being my first entry on here.
> 
> I hope it's readable since I'm no doubt very rusty. And thank you for reading this if you do. It means more than I can hope to say.

Rin sits in front of his father’s grave and turns his gaze to the sea.

It’s a clear day, the clouds gathered high as the sun begins to set. There’s barely a breeze, tasting faintly of salt, but it’s enough to be a comfort, enough to ruffle his hair even within the confines of his trademark ponytail. Rin thinks it’s fitting, the calmness of the day, especially after how this past week of training has been. Not bad, no, of course not – he’s actually improving his times, but if anything, it’s been exhausting. This trip back home from Australia, while recommended by his coach in words both kind and annoyed, is one Rin’s hoping will at least help with the stress.

As the expanse of sky stretches on before his eyes, orange and yellow battling a blue, calm sea, he remembers a few co-workers of his father’s. He can’t remember their faces but only their voices, if only faintly, and their fondness of proverbs that always made Rin think they were acting older than they looked. It was even worse when his father tried to copy them and ended up just sounding silly.

_After rain comes fair weather_ , that was one, a popular one commonly spread around the docks. He remembers it from somewhere in the past, in the back of his mind. It’s attached to those rare nights when his father wasn’t working, when they had a chance to share warm bowls of ramen between conversations even though it was past Rin’s bedtime. When he was surrounded by rainy windows and the laughter of his father instead of the blankets of his bed, the smell of salt-stained clothes and trout and the sea instead of warm cotton and stuffy pajamas. It’s a rarely visited set of memories that’s more blurry than anything, and Rin thanks his mother for having a fondness for telling stories (even if the thought of her knowing he stayed up late wasn’t as good to know.)

He finds himself smiling as he mouths the words in English.

It matches today, too, the proverb, since it had rained yesterday – a light, dreary fall with a slight chill. Enough of a downpour to stop any chance of Rin having one of his nightly runs, unfortunately. Thankfully he was able to make up for it with the trek towards the grave site; this hill has always been a little bit of a challenge, even if he didn’t want to admit it, and especially when Gou came along.

He wonders if he should invite her to come with him next time.

Down below, back towards the sea, fishermen’s boats are docked at the harbors, empty and patient for another journey. They are gently swaying in the water, so slightly that Rin strains to see from his place on the hill. When he realizes how long he’s focused on watching the bustling of the harbor, he smiles if only for nostalgia’s sake. When he sees the fishermen start to re-board their boats, tossing equipment as easily as their calls and demands, the sounds faint against the rustle of leaves, wind, the calls of seagulls, he turns away and looks back at the grave.

His mother must have been here last. At least, he’s pretty sure it was her. The grave is clean, the petals of asters decorating the flat stone base of the grave – _shions_ , he thinks they are called, these ones specifically that his mother has always had a fondness for. A few are flat against the dirt, having fallen from their stems. Rin picks at them absently from his seat, the coolness of the dirt chilling his fingertips, but he lets them slip away after a moment. The wind picks them up and then, who knows? - perhaps they are gone, down towards the hillside to fly over the docks. Maybe they'll grace the decks of the ships, his mother's prayers for her late husband shared among the people he probably once worked with.

With a sigh, Rin raises his head and traces the letters of the grave, ignoring the burning that’s started to grow at the base of his throat. He focuses instead on the air, the salt. It’s a familiar taste on his tongue, maybe too familiar – almost to the point of dislike but not yet, not now. Yet the thought is entertaining, comforting; maybe that’s why his throat burns hot, pressure a slight pain he doesn’t feel like caving to. He can’t remember the first day he ever tasted salt in the air, along with the smell of the sea. It’s always been with him, just like the ocean, like swimming, like dreams of relays and gold medals. Like the absence of a man he barely knew but knew enough to love. One he lost sight of, of their back as they walked, their voice as they talked, but not of their dreams, their ideals that clung to Rin’s mind like an anchor.

And he’s found that it can sometimes be hard to swim with all of that weight, even though he doesn't mind carrying it.

“Dad,” he starts, but the words settle down like a calming sea. Maybe that’s all he needs to say right now. He knows that it is all he can get out.

After a moment of wishing he had a drink, anything to chase away the tightness in his throat, he decides the silence is more comfortable than talking and continues to stare at the letters of his family’s name. He’s grown used to looking at these carvings through clear eyes, even during the worst of times, during the times when he couldn't be proud of himself, when all he could accomplish was just a downcast glare at the gravestone and pretending it was enough. But today, it’s a little blurry.

He rubs a hand over his eyes and laughs, tilting his head back a bit and staring at bundles of leaves that shade over the grave site. Part of him wonders what his mother would say if she caught sight of him, cross-legged and slouched, a pace away from the grave. He wonders if she’d laugh and tell him to sit on something so he doesn’t dirty his pants. Knowing her, she’d probably scold him while wearing that smile he’s so used to seeing Gou wear, and the thought alone is enough to calm his nerves, a grin cracking his lips. He needs to visit her next, surprise her with a sudden visit – he already knows what she’ll do after crushing him in a hug, too, and he’s looking forward to the familiar barrage of questions after being away from home for a while. Right after he’s done here, he’ll visit her and Gou, so he tucks that mental note away for later.

“Dad,” he tries again and finds it easier to speak, “Gou said she put your picture up at the Iwatobi SC. The one of you and your team, when you won your relay. She told me that the kids there ask about it pretty often,” and he smiles; they probably haven’t asked as much as he did when he was a child, and they probably never will. “Looks like you’re still a celebrity around here, huh?”

Rin laughs at the thought. He can only imagine Gou’s face as she talks about their dad, and what she says. Maybe she talks about her brother, too.

The sun, having peaked the sky hours ago, has begun to grace the horizon with a soft, orange glow in earnest. He finds himself looking out again, beyond the hillside, to the street lamps that dot the roads alongside the harbor. The lights are flicking on, one at a time, like golden stars against a gray backdrop. He counts them as the click on. He stares at the street lights and pretends it's a little less lonely up here on the hilltop. The harbor, he notices once he stops counting, is half-empty, the outlines of the boats now blurry against the line of the ocean, and Rin digs his fingers into the sleeves of his jacket as he finds himself praying for their safety.

He wonders if his mother ever prays for them. The families of the other men who died alongside his dad; maybe they pray for the workers now.

“They’ll be fine,” he whispers to himself, makes himself believe it. After a moment, Rin turns back once more to the gravestone.

Standing up, he staggers forward, his legs numb from sitting too long. Sousuke always described it as static, the feeling of lack of use. Rin wonders about him too, what he's up to these days, and if he's doing anything stupid enough for Rin to knock him upside the head for. Probably, it wouldn't be Sousuke otherwise. Laughing to himself, he decides he'll do it anyway, and places that note right next to the one about visiting his mother.

Finding his legs, steeling the soles of his shoes into the ground, he reaches out and taps his fist against the surface of the gravestone.

“Sorry I can’t stay longer, Dad. The plane was delayed, and I still need to catch the train to Mom’s.”

The stone is warm underneath his knuckles. Rin pictures his father knocking his fist back in reply. It's the same feeling when he's standing on the starting blocks before a race, when his sister cheers for him, when his team congratulates him on a job well done - this warmth is the same, and Rin hopes that it's his father's way of saying, _I'm proud of you, too._

He tastes salt again, all too quickly, and he drops his hand with a quiet laugh. The warmth lingers on the back of his hand as he turns towards the direction of the harbor, grabbing his duffle bag from the ground and hoisting it up on his shoulder with practiced ease. With the hilltop glowing a pale gold, the gravestone bright, the wind a faint sound that rings out the bells of the boats at sea, Rin ducks his head and turns away.

The wind, slightly salty and faint, follows him down the hill and all the way home.


End file.
